


(Bee) My Queen

by surrenderdammit



Series: Little Falcon [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, NOT Arthur or Merlin, PWP, Romance, Talk of impending character death from illness, This is total porn and sap, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, mild food porn, petnames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/surrenderdammit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Sweetheart, You're Mine". You don't need to read that to understand this. It's shameless porn with feelings.</p><p> <i>The lovely creature hidden underneath all that fabric can be as bristling with bright, lightning energy as a summer storm; sleep only banks it like a fire and leaves it simmering with the occasional crack-pop of a heated coal. It’s a heady, addictive thing; a cleansing to subject himself to when his back is threatening to bend under too heavy weights, when his heart is on the verge of rotting like an infested wound. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	(Bee) My Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Some warnings and notes you can skip if you'd like.
> 
> The character death that's impending is Uther. This is very AU though, and it's only mentioned in relation to Arthur eventually taking over the crown.
> 
> The sex is unsafe though if you've read the prequel to this it's hinted that Merlynn takes (~magical~) potions as contraceptive. 
> 
> There's also talk of (but no actual) rimming, using honey in the process. Also talk of (but no actual) fletching. Arthur is just a dirty, dirty man. With a very appreciative lover.
> 
> The food sex I tagged involves just honey. The anal fingering and sex is performed on Merlynn, not Arthur this time around (who knows what I might write next oh god). 
> 
> There's also a very large amount of total sap and romantic bullshit.
> 
> I thinks that's all.
> 
> Uh. So, if any of that bothers you, well, you've been warned. 
> 
> Anyway, last thing; this hasn't been beta read and English isn't my first language. I finished it in one sitting and it's now 3.40am so, uh, sorry about that. IT MIGHT EXPLAIN THE TITLE WHICH IS A VERY TERRIBLE PUN ON THE HONEY, I AM SO SORRY.
> 
> Right. The story. Let's go~

.

.

.

His father’s health has been steadily declining over the last few weeks, growing worse as winter creeps in and sets deep at the very core of the land with blankets of glittering snow. The delicate spread of frost on windows lends to the icy, crisp beauty which is equal parts deadly as it is seductively serene. The usual bustle of Camelot is subdued, not only for the chill and descending darkness seeping energy from land and people alike, but for the acting regent taking on more and more responsibility as the King retreats further in his sickness. It’s a heavy burden on Arthur’s shoulders, the duty to his kingdom warring with the duty of a son. His heart has always been a gift from his mother, as his temper was his father’s, but he knows he would do no one any favours by allowing himself to sit by the sickbed of a dying King with a brittle old hand in his like a little boy seeking comfort.

Instead, he carries on, trying not to hope in vain for a miraculous cure every time Gaius exits the Royal chambers with ever-growing despondence. Arthur delivers reports to a delirious King, brushes wrinkles out of the covers and furs covering a body that trembles in fever-chills, gathers his knights and prepares.

He’s slowly replacing and adding his own advisors. He’s overlooking laws and calculating the sufficiency of the winter’s food stocks over again. There is an endless list of duties he loses himself in as he’s slowly accepting the inevitable.

Through it all, there are his closest knights with sound advice and silent support; there’s Guinevere with kind smiles, Gaius a wise and invaluable ally. But perhaps, he admits with little difficulty, there is one who eclipses them all.

He turns from where he’s been standing by the window, surveying the empty courtyard and light snowfall in the dark of late evening, to face his bed. It’s an impressive mound of blankets and furs, the light from the fireplace flickering playful shadows around the room. Warming the air and softening the cold edges of a winter night, the yellows and reds from the flames blends with the blue shades of a bright moon. The only thing indicating the bed is occupied is the wild mess of dark curls standing out like a shock of black ink on the white pillows, as well as the minute rise and fall of the mountain of covers. He smiles, his new focus allowing him to hear the soft snuffles of sleep, the rustling of sheets and furs against twitching limbs that can never be still unless he’s there to hold them in check.

The lovely creature hidden underneath all that fabric can be as bristling with bright, lightning energy as a summer storm; sleep only banks it like a fire and leaves it simmering with the occasional crack-pop of a heated coal. It’s a heady, addictive thing; a cleansing to subject himself to when his back is threatening to bend under too heavy weights, when his heart is on the verge of rotting like an infested wound. He does not dare contemplate where he’d be without it, knows it’s unfathomable to even consider the possibility when the years stretches so far before them. His father’s death will be devastating; it will be the end of an era. But as the _King is dead_ , it's the _Long Live the King_ , and he thinks that this, this knowledge that there is a future beyond the next day’s sorrow is what his beloved has gifted him with.

This future has, indeed, been on his mind a lot lately. Beyond the practicalities, there are the warm, secret thoughts he’s been nursing over the years. A vision of his own Camelot, that’s been built and shaped and nursed over a lifetime from lisping toddler to naïve boy, from arrogant youth to humbled young man. There are commoners as knights now, servants no longer furniture. There will be more; magic, for one. The executions tapered off the moment the King was lost to his delirium, and soon they will no longer be enforced on people who has done no more wrong than simply having been born. But for now, he’s blurring the lines between the nobility and the commoners in the ways he can.

He will have his Queen, with his knights and advisors at his side, and their Camelot will be born in a new, golden era.

Shaking his head to dispel himself of the heavy mood he’s been in for most of the evening, Arthur moved towards the bed and carefully settled down, resting a hand on the soft furs and feeling them move in response.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers, fondly, as his hand slides up to tug at the blankets and reveal more of the mess of black curls. He huffs in delight as the pale curve of a delicate ear is revealed to the cool air, smiling softly at the grumbling noises he receives for his troubles. “My little bird, you’ve slept through supper. Wake up; I have brought you something to eat.”

“G’way,” comes the grumpy reply, which he ignores to tug the blankets further down and reveal the pretty profile of his lazy menace. Her pale skin is flushed over her sharp cheekbones, from heat and the winter cold she’s acquired from her own stubbornness and foolishness. He’ll make it an order castle-wide to wrap her in cloaks and furs should she ever be seen without.

She squeaks in indignant disbelief when he manages to uncover her down to her shoulders, which are as bare as he suspects the rest of her is underneath all those blankets. _Little menace_.

“Arthur! You prat!”, she rasps, throat still sore he notes, glad he remembered to have hot water and honey brought up along with the thick broth she loves. He traps her flailing hands in his own when she tries to burrow back down under the covers, smiling at the way her eyes shine with the burn of annoyance rather than the blank sheen of sickness. She is getting better.

“ _Mer_ lynn,” he replies, cradling her hands against his chest as he leans down to steal a kiss, heedless to her noises of half-hearted protests. Her lips are petal soft against his own chapped ones, warm and moist from being under the covers for hours. He mouths at them, licking around them and sucking in her lower lip, tasking the salt of her sweat before sliding his tongue inside her wet heat and tasting the staleness of sleep. He cares little, shares the lingering taste of the sweetmeats he had earlier and kisses her until all they taste of are themselves, mingled and familiar.

“Mmm,” she sighs when he finally releases her, keeping him close by the grip of his tunic where her hands are resting in his grip. Their breaths are mingling, hot and damp against their skins, and she nuzzles her nose against his in sweet affection that sometimes still has him blushing. “Better, Sire. Will you join me now? I’ve missed you; you haven’t been in bed for ages. You’re better than the furs, m’lord.”

He laughs, pulling back just enough to see the teasing glint in her eyes, the wicked tilt of her grin. “I am glad to hear it. And stop exaggerating; I was here for lunch, when you were decidedly more dressed than you appear to be now, you insufferable minx. Pray, what did you do to my nightshift?”

Rolling her eyes, Merlynn lets go of his tunic and smoothes her hands over his chest, wrists delicate in his loose grip. “You need to stop mollycoddling me, Arthur. I am not an invalid. Beyond a sore throat, I am _fine_. The fever lasted no more than a day and night. I won’t break.” Licking her lips, she tugs him close again for a deep kiss, ending it just as quick with a sharp bite at his lip that causes his breath to hitch. “And as much as I enjoy it, I much prefer _you_ against my skin, rather than your clothes, Sire.”

It startles another laugh out of him, something that’s been rare these past few weeks, but in here, with her, it’s hard to think of anything beyond what they have and what they _will_ have. It reminds him of the discussion he’d planned to have with her this evening when he entered his chambers only to find her still asleep, with a cold tray of food untouched on the table. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her just yet, and had called a servant for a fresh meal and a hot bath, the curtains of his bed drawn in an illusion of privacy. He’d taken to standing by the window then, waiting for the bath to be drawn and meal delivered, locking the door behind the last servant once it was done and opening the curtains once again. He’d dedicated a few more minutes to gazing through the window and settling his thoughts for the night, unwilling to wake Merlynn to a sombre, defeated mood.

Now though, as he had her full, wakeful attention he decided food was first then a bath. Then, perhaps, he’ll be ready to speak of what’s been on his mind for these past few days of her sickness.

“I do not _coddle_ anyone,” he denies, though it is a lie, because he spoils her like a pathetic suitor to the loveliest princess, between the insults and the banter. He has, to his everlasting amusement, found that threatening her with gifts like silken dresses, bejewelled trinkets and jewellery works much better than any time spent in the stocks would ever do. “And be that as it may, this is your own fault. Really, _Mer_ lynn, must you prove again and again that you are so incompetent you cannot even dress yourself properly?”

She huffs, attempting to swat at him, but he’s still got her hands trapped between his own. “You hardly give me any chance to practise neither dressing nor undressing, _Sire_. That is hardly any fault of mine.”

He hums, a deeply pleased rumble in his chest, letting his grip of her loosen to smooth his hands down her bare arms, up along her shoulders to rest on either side of her neck. His thumbs press lightly against the hinges of her jaw before he leans down to kiss her once more. Her arms slipped around his neck as he went, now hugging him close as she gasps beneath him. Smoothing his thumbs along her jaw in slow strokes once, twice, thrice, he moves to slip his hands down, spreading them across her shoulder blades. He lifts her slightly off the bed, crushing her close and deepening the kiss into something wet and messy, swirling his tongue with hers and pulling it in to suckle, realising it only to mouth and nibble at her lips. She’s trembling against him, breathing heavily through her nose and making low moans and high pitches noises of desire.

He can feel her shifting restlessly under the heavy weight of blankets, her body squirming and pleading for him to cover it properly; slot between her wanton thighs no doubt spread already, waiting. He growls, imagining the sticky heat of sweaty skin and the wet slippery mess of her cunt burning against his cock. It’s a testament to all his years of having control beaten into him that he manages to wrench himself free, gently but firmly unhooking her arms from his neck to put some distance between himself and the wicked temptation of her flushed face (a healthy glow of arousal rather that the feverish misery of just a day ago), spit-drenched lips and heaving bosom. The furs and blankets have slipped down to rest across her stomach from her wriggling, her naked breasts uncovered in the warm light of the fire, nipples puckered from chill or arousal or both. He imagines they must feel raw from being pressed against the rough fabric of his winter tunic, so sensitive to touch as they are. Growling in frustration, he dips down to suck her left nipple into his mouth, harsh in his desperation, and she arches so prettily in response; gasping and withering underneath him. He nibbles and bites until she’s sobbing, giving it a parting kiss and lick before he moves to its neglected twin. It isn’t until he leaves it equally enflamed and wet that he finally pulls back entirely, sitting back upright and taking hold of her wrists in one hand to pin it against her stomach in order to keep her in place lest she pounces and obliterates the little control which remains.

“Fuck,” he hisses, panting as he watches how she trembles in senseless arousal, eyes glazed and mouth open. He grinds the palm of his free hand against the bulge of his own arousal, reminding himself sternly that she hasn’t eaten or probably even had anything to drink since lunch, foolish creature. He can’t have her the way he wants so soon after sickness if she hasn’t filled up her strength. At least, he thinks, she has rested sufficiently. Food, drink and a bath, he thinks. Then he’ll wreck her.

“Arthur,” she moans, voice broken in a whine after a few moments when she’s gathered some coherency. The hot, heavy clench of smug pleasure lingers with the deep feeling of possession she feeds whenever he reduces her to this. The blue sapphires of her eyes are almost swallowed by black and gold, still too dazed to glare at him. He decided to act quickly, before she becomes aware of his intention to put this on hold for now.

“Shh, little bird,” he soothes, voice a husky growl that has her shivering. He lets go of her hands, catching her chin in a gentle grip to make her focus on him fully, meeting her eyes. “Stay here, I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

Merlynn whines, buts nods, the daze of her arousal giving way to heated anticipation. He smirks and stands, walks stiffly over to the table to serve up broth in a bowl and fetch the wineskin, before returning. He’ll leave the honey for the bath, to sooth her throat without making a mess of the bed (he has no doubt he’ll be licking it off her lips and chin and neck, by the way his cock is throbbing. Not even he can boast of the kind of restraint needed to resist that temptation. Not when he knows what the combination of honey does to the taste of her skin).

He settles his burdens on the bedside table, ignoring the frown she’s sending his way as he removes his boots and starts to manoeuvring her to slip in bed behind her, having her rest against his chest as he props himself up against the headboard. Reaching for the wineskin, he lifts it up to her lips and she takes a sip after heaving a resigned sigh.

“Coddling,” she remarks dryly, voice still husky from desire and body quivering ever so slightly in unslaked lust against him. The heat of her fur-warmed and lust-hot skin burns through his clothes, his prick hard against her back and weeping in frustration. He hands her the bowl next, urging her to take a few mouthfuls before making sure she had more watered wine. It went on, Arthur making sure she switched between broth and wine until he deemed she’d had enough of both. The silence was lazy between them, the initial frenzy of desire baked to a simmering beast lying in wake. The intimacy was treasured, the anticipation lending it a sweet edge he savoured even as he couldn’t quite keep his hips from rocking languidly against her.  

Once she’s finished, he puts the bowl and wineskin away, resting a hand against her back to steady her as she sits up to allow him to slip off the bed again. She lays back, spread invitingly with her bosom still bare (trollop), her desire obvious. He shakes his head, grinning at her furious scowl, the flash of gold in her eyes a warning he doesn’t heed.

“Come on, little falcon, up. You can glare at the water to heat it up again, just don’t boil it, or I won’t join your bath,” he says, walking away to where the tub is situation close to the fire, dipping a hand into the water to test the temperature. It’s cooled down; lukewarm from the time that has elapsed since brought in. He barely manages to swallow a yelp of surprise, stiffening to avoid jumping in surprise, as he feels his breeches suddenly unlace and drop to his feet. The laces of his tunic follows, an insistent tugging bunching the fabric under his arms in an eagerness to get it off.

He laughs, turns to face his shameless wanton where she’s slipping out of bed gloriously naked and grinning; eyes wide and innocent. “What?”, she says, sauntering over, her hips swaying. He shakes his head, lifts his arms and allows tunic and smallclothes to be removed while stepping out of his breeches. He’s left as naked as her, shivering slightly, holding out his arm to catch her against him for a brief kiss.

“Come one,” he murmurs against her lips, grinning at the flash of gold in her eyes and the fresh steam from the bath that follows. “My sweet.”

He steps into the bath, one hand still in hers, and settles down with his legs spread. She follows, choosing to straddle him instead of resting back to chest again. He hums, pleased, and reaches up to brush her messy hair aside, letting it fall down her back and securing stray locks behind her ears. Her arms lock around his neck, resting against his shoulders while she sinks further down, breasts almost brushing his chest. His prick slides easy between the lips of her cunt, twitching at the velvety heat, causing him to groan and rest his head against the edge to the tub. Nuzzling in behind his ear, Merlynn licks at his skin and hums. She’s placing soft kisses along his jaw, up his cheeks, across his brows and down his nose before licking into his mouth. A stray thought on the sweetness of her lips reminds him of the honey, her groan harsher than usual from the soreness in her throat.

“The honey,” he says between kisses, “on the table.”

She makes a noise of agreement, slipping an arm free too blindly grope for the floating jar she no doubt summoned by the flash of gold he caught. “Water too,” he continues, licking her upper lip, “And goblet.” She kisses the side mouth his mouth, continues to his chin. “Need to mix.” Captures his lips again, grinding against his cock. He groans. “For your throat,” he finishes insistently, moving his kisses to her throat and setting to work on tenderizing it with sucks and nibbles.

“I’d rather suck it off your cock,” she breathed out, the sound of her voice vibrating against his lips as it travels. “Swallow it down with your seed.” He growls, thrusting up, the head of his prick catching at her hole before slipping past. Impatient, he settles a hand on her hip and help her guide him inside. The tight heat swallowing him up causes him to bite down on her shoulder, his ever muscle tight in restraint as he longs to slam into her like a brute, leaving bruises on her hips and vivid marks of his passion along neck and bosom. 

“Gods, Arthur,” she moans. “You feel so good.”

He licks up her throat, nipping at her chin where she’s titled her head back to bare her neck for him. “Fuck. Drink the honey, little bird. Let me lick it from your sweet mouth.”

There’s a clank of metal, a dull thud of wood, a flash of heat before there’s a goblet between them. Merlynn is rocking desperately on his cock, his grip on her hips limiting her motions, and he urges her to lean back slightly when he reached for the goblet of hot watered honey.

“Come, sweet,” he murmurs, raising it to her lips and titling it, watching intently as she gulps it down greedily, the sticky liquid escaping from the corners of her mouth and slithering down her throat in a sensual rivulet of gold in the firelight. He brings the goblet down again, slowing her to swallow and catch her breath, sitting like something fey and forbidden in his lap, skin and lips glistering from water and sweat and honey. He hitches his hips up once in a hard, short thrust to have her gasp and moan for him, drinking in the sight of rosy blushes and puckered nipples. “Beautiful,” he whispers, “So beautiful.”

She leans in close, Arthur holding the goblet out of the way, careful not to spill until they’ve consumed every drop. Her mouth is open in invitation, her eyes heavy lidded. He wastes little time, licking hungrily at her lips, following the sticky trail of warm honey down her neck and bosom, sucking at the skin until there’s not a trace left.

“Fuck me, damn you,” she hisses when he turns his attention to her nipples, still rocking desperately against him, not giving either of them enough friction but he holds steady, letting the frustration build and tease them to mindless heights. The muscles of his stomach and thighs are cramping with the effort of holding back, of not just slamming into her and find his relief in her trembling core. “Arthur, _please_.”

Her voice is a wreck, thick and broken. He presses the goblet to her lips once more, urging her to swallow the last. She gulps it down eagerly, too quickly, and he has to tilt the goblet back down to slow the pour of watered honey down her throat. She’s making a mess of herself again, licking at the goblet to capture the last drops that she hasn’t spilt down her front and smeared all over her lips. He breathes heavily, jerks the goblet away and lets it fall to the floor in a loud clatter of stone and metal.

Gripping her hips with both his hands now, he lifts her up and slams her down properly, water sloshing around them, but stills her the moment she tries to lift up again for more. He keeps her seated, slips a hand up her back to press her close to him, her sticky skin making a mess out of him even as her mouths seeks his out hungrily, teeth sharp and biting in her frustration.

“I’m going to undo you,” he promises against her lips. “I’m going to rock into you slowly until you break apart. I’ll bury deep into your cunt and press my fingers into your dirty hole.”

Merlynn whines against him, unable to flush a deeper red than the heat of fire and water and desire has already accomplished. He smirks, twitching his hips in quick, shallow thrusts while he keeps her still. The hand on her back trails down to the cleft of her buttocks and he trails his fingers between, letting the pads of two fingers rub against the wrinkled entrance that still makes her squirm and blush, despite the throughout possession he’s waged against her body.   

“I’ll open you up while you’re sobbing on my cock,” he continues, pressing a fingertip against her until it slips inside, the tight heat around his prick quivering as she whimpers. “Stuff your little bottom full with my fingers while you ride my cock.”

The hand on her hip relaxes the thigh grip which her in place and allows her to move; rocking in jerky, awkward movements as she squirms against the finger pressing deeper inside. The heated water helps slide the way but he can feel she’s tight, tensed in desperate arousal warring with needless shyness in an otherwise wanton hussy.

“Once I’ve had you here,” he murmurs, his desire reflected in the dark rumble of his voice. “I’ll haul you up and push your onto the bed. Let the furs dry you off.” He hums, mind racing with what he wants to do to her. He starts up a rhythm with his finger, dragging against the silky heat as the pace of her thrusts falters. Another finger probes along the rim of her hole, soothing the muscle as he buries his face into her neck and licks against the sticky trails of drying honey.

“I think I’ll have you on your belly,” he remarks, trailing his tongue up to the corner of her mouth, cleaning her with care. “I think I’ll suckle your nipples until they’re raw, just so you’ll writhe against the furs, too sensitive even for mink.”

He feels her nails bite into his shoulders, groans as she picks up the pace, pressing back against his cock and fingers as her breath leaves her in the familiar _ah-ah-ah’s_ that means she’s found an angle where his cock punches it out of her just so. He slips another finger inside, scissoring them to stretch for an eventual third.

“I’ll bury myself in your little bottom then,” he hisses out through clenched teeth, prick twitching inside of her from the mere thought of it. “Maybe I should slick you up with honey first, lick it out, eat it out from you like a _treat_.”

 His hips thrust up to meet her, fingers wriggling inside her bottom and drawing out keens and mewls of passion as she rides him with abandon now; swallowing his cock again and again, so lovely with her bosom  bouncing and head thrown back. He licks and sucks at the trails of honey he’s missed, letting go of her hip to grab a breast and feed her nipple into his mouth; its abused, wrinkly skin reddened and puckered. He moves with her, allowing his hips to join the rhythm properly now, working his fingers inside her in time with their undulations. He divides his attention between her nipples, sucking them raw and soothing with warm laps of tongue before moving to the next, again and again. Merlynn is a mess above him, around him; sobbing and babbling nonsense, biting out dirty curses and sweet pleas. When she’s trashing to get away from his mouth, tears in the corner of her eyes, he relents and leans back to watch; soothing down her soft, taunt belly with his free hand until he can press his thumb against the sensitive nub of her cunt; pushing against it hard, ruthlessly rubbing against it and flicking it with his thumbnail until she screams.

She comes undone with her head thrown back, tendril of her dark hair stuck to her back and shoulders, down her arms, from the damp of water and sweat. She’s clenching around his prick, squeezing his fingers. He teases a third inside as she shudders against him, easing the pressure of his thumb but keeping up a light rubbing. She twitches all over; the muscles of her thighs spasms, her arms are trembling against his shoulders, her cunt and arsehole clenching and unclenching. She’s too sensitive for his touch but he persists until she sobs brokenly, collapsing against him as she finishes falling apart; trusting him to catch the pieces.

He cradles her against him, keeping fingers and cock inside but leaving her trembling cunt alone to smooth a hand up around her hip and along her spine, settling to bury into the tangled mess of her curls. Palming the back of her head, he secures her in his embrace, letting her sob quietly into his neck while he murmurs sweet, soothing words and gentles her back to reality.

Her breathing is uneven and shaky for a long while, but she goes from devastated to relaxed against him as soon as he settles her. It takes a while but soon he feels the return of strength in her, though it’s a lazy, satisfied strength that allows her to rock gently against him and tighten the grip her cunt has on his prick with maddening caresses.

“Shh,” he shushes her, urging her to settle. “Not yet.”

He reluctantly slips his fingers free of her bottom and grabs her hips, lifting her off his cock and settling her on the other side of the tub. Standing, he gets out of the tub, trying to ignore the throbbing of his unsatisfied prick, the temperamental rise and fall of desperation and languidness in their passions not without consequences.    

“Come on, sweetheart,” he urges, reaching for her and helping her stand, lifting her out of the tub by guiding her arms around his neck as he swept an arm under her knees. She’s relaxed and sated against him, shivering from the cooler air as the aftermath of their lovemaking. He stops before the bed and nudges with his nose until she tilts her head for a kiss, licking the last remaining traces of honey from her mouth with a soft sigh of regret.

“Go on, lie down,” he murmurs, settling her on the bed and urging her to crawl up and lie belly down. She obeys, always so sweetly compliant after his cock, fingers or tongue has driven her out of her mind. It’s as pleasing and maddening as her insolence. He steps back to admire her, the curve of her spine and bottom, and smirks in satisfaction as she squirms against the furs underneath her. Her thighs are rubbing together, tensing and relaxing, while she utters soft moans, her hands fisting the pillows in a tight grip.

The bone tired exhaustion of sated lust begins, in all these little ways, to give way to a rising desire. Arthur sucks in a breath, squeezing the base of his cock, knowing this won’t take long for either of them.

He rounds the bed and opens the drawers of the table next to it, taking out a vial of oil before returning to stand behind her prone form. He nudges her thighs apart, bending her knees and spreading her legs apart to make room. Crawling up to kneel between them, he hoists her up into his lap by her thighs and strokes a hand down her spine to her shoulders in a sooth gesture.

“Arthur,” she mumbles into the pillows, her hips hitching slightly in his lap. He rests a hand on one of her buttocks, running his thumb in circles, and settles the bottle of oil down on the bed next to him. His other hand joins, both of them now spread on her bottom and kneading the flesh to catch glimpses of her relaxed hole. Her cunt is glistering in juices, swollen from his prick, making his mouth water as his hands get rougher.

“Gods, Merlynn, what you do to me,” he rasps, painfully aroused from holding himself back for so long. He releases one cheek to grope for the oil, thumbing it open as he roughly spreads her arse as open as he can; spreading his own thighs to widen hers sprawled over his lap while pushing a cheek aside with his hand, insistent. “Not going to last long, you absolute strumpet. But you won’t either, will you? Your little bottom will swallow my cock as easily as your cunt, won’t it?”

She moans, squirming, the sounds of her muffled from where she’s hiding her face in the pillows. He chuckles, pours the oil down the exposed cleft of her arse and makes a noise of apology when she jerks and hisses at the cold. He feels a flare of heat and knows she’s taken care of it, smiling soft to himself as he pours more on his prick before putting the vial aside, not bothering to cork it again and letting it make a mess of the furs.

He strokes his cock first, smearing the oil until he’s glistering and clenching his teeth in an effort to not just push inside and _take_ just yet. Then he runs his fingers along her cleft, massaging the twitching hole of her arse, pressing two fingers inside and letting her eager moans and whimpers drive him on. Fucking her fast with them, he wastes little time to add a third, twitching and spreading while his other hand kneads her bottom. His prick is rubbing against her cunt, mixing oil with the sticky sweet of her essence, until he can’t hold back anymore.

“Fuck,” he curses, slipping his fingers free and grabbing hold of the base of his sock for a hard squeeze as he shuffles back a bit to guide his cock into her sweet bottom. “Fuck, Merlynn. Sweetheart. Look at you, taking me so well. Your little bottom is so hungry, it’s practically sucking me inside _. Fuck_.”      

He has both hands on her buttock now, spreading them wide to watch his cock bury into her arse. It’s hot, tighter than her cunt as this is a treat they don’t indulge in as often. With a hard thrust he’s fully inside, pressed against her as her legs scramble for a hold where she’s spread across his lap. He gives her a moment to plant her knees on the bed, moves with her until he’s kneeling behind her watching the fluid arch of her back. She’s squirming and mewling and he realizes she’s pressing her bosom down into the bed; the furs no doubt sweet agony of her abused nipples. _Fuck_.   

Pulling out, he slams back in before Merlynn manages to utter a protest; he punches the breath out of her as he settles into a vicious rhythm. He can no longer hold back, desperate for release as his cock slams into her, his balls slapping against her cunt. She’s reaching underneath herself and he can imagine her fingers rubbing desperately at her cunt, stabbing into her empty hole and slipping up to pinch at her swollen nub. He curses and moans. A litany of noises fills the room; the wet squelch of oil, skin slapping against skin, cries of pleasure as they both work themselves towards release. Arthur revels in the tight clench of her arse, feeling his balls draw up taunt as pleasure builds like a knot; heat like lightening thunders through him and he gives a last few thrusts as Merlynn falls apart around him, dragging him with her. He buries himself as deep as he can go, pushing her down until her knees five out and she’s pressed against the bed, shuddering. He spills his seed deep inside her, muscles taunt and mouth open in a silent shout of her name. His hips stutter a last few times, her pretty, sweet little bottom milking him dry, before he collapses onto his elbows, caging her in.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rocking his hips a few more times, wincing at the twinge of pain from his abused prick but unwilling to pull out just yet. He rests against Merlynn’s back for a while, keeping enough of his weight off with his elbows and knees to keep from crushing her. She’s a sated mess beneath him, shivering as he trails his mouth along her shoulders and back, spitting out tendrils of hair that gets stuck. He wonders why she had her plaid undone but dismisses it, instead nosing into the sweaty mess at her neck and breathing in the scent of sex, sweat and honey mingling with the familiar scent of her hair.

“Beloved,” she sighs. When he hums in reply she just sighs again, happily. “Darling.”

He grunts, moving to kneel up again, steadying himself on her bottom. He can’t resist spreading her again as he pulls out, licking his lips at the obscene sound as his cock pops free. There’s a trail of come trickling out already. He’d settle down and tongue her clean, feed it to her as she squirms and blushes, swallows and kisses him. But he’s tired, sated, and Merlynn is making impatient noises. He crawls up to help her slip underneath the blankets to settle in for the night. Gathering her close, he yawns, letting her sprawl across his chest as he pets down her back and curves a hand around the swell of her hip.

“What was it you wanted to talk with me about?” she says after a few moments, dragging him back from his doze.     

“What?”, he frowns in confusion, not bothering to open his eyes.

“You’ve been odd for days. At lunch, you said you wanted to talk about it tonight.”

Arthur sighs. “Mmm, yes.” He pauses a moment to collect his thoughts. “When I’m King,” he stops, because it’s a painful thing to say still, but continues at the gentle pressure of Merlynn’s hand over his hearts, “I’m going to ask you to be my Queen.”

They’ve talked of _their_ Camelot before. Long before they became _this,_ Merlynn has talked of helping him become the greatest King of the land. It didn’t stop when they became lovers; simply became more intimate. Merlynn whispering about magic, her eyes shining in excitement as she speaks of being free, of the wonders of magic, the possibilities. But their love, a slow burn that sparked bright from the start, has buried itself so deep in loyalty and friendship and devotion it’s been evident and thus unnecessary to discuss as it was understood on both parts. But Arthur’s been thinking a lot about the future lately, beyond the simple wants and wishes and needs of ‘ _Merlynn by my side’_. Although the notion of having her as his wife and Queen as been a notion he’s carried in his heart for years now, they’ve yet to have it confirmed in the open. With things as they are now, he needs to prepare for this, if it is to be done.

Merlynn is silent for a few moments, tracing circles and unknown runes over his heart, before she speaks. “I don’t know if I’ll make a good Queen. I don’t know if I can be a Queen. But I love you. Camelot will be ours. I was born to stand by your side; it is our destiny. I will gladly pledge myself to you before the kingdom. I’ll be honoured to be your wife, as I am honoured to have been your friend and lover.”

Swallowing around the mysterious lump in his throat, Arthur tightens his arm around his treasure and buries his face in her hair, breathing in. “You will be the greatest Queen Camelot has ever seen. You’re more than I deserve, sweetheart. I pledge my life, my heart, my soul and kingdom to you. With you by my side, I can achieve wonders.”

She clung to him, breathing hitched, prompting him to run his hands soothingly down her back and murmuring soft words of love and adoration, heart aching in his chest.

“We will be great.”     

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> They didn't get very much washing done in that bath. 
> 
> Anyway, AGAIN, SO SORRY FOR 3.AM TYPOS. I have slippery fingers and spell-check isn't always my friend. And sometimes my brain shuts down. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed regardless!


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